


bittersweetness

by singitagain



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, M/M, Massage, Self Image Issues, Swallowing, edward you sly devil you, got a little on your face there, sentimental talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 05:05:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17574431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singitagain/pseuds/singitagain
Summary: "You don't have to do this," Oswald tells him. Fingers curling into fists.They look at each other a while. Their throats bob, almost at the same time, for different reasons."I want to, Oswald."





	bittersweetness

**Author's Note:**

> Yadda yadda yadda, probably gonna edit this to death, you know the deal. I have no editor/beta-reader so I apologize for any mistakes and I hope you like this anyway. Consider leaving a comment if you feel like it. More nygmobblenonsense coming in the near future!

Getting permission for it seems like just a formality at this point; Oswald already knows the feel of his hands, the heat of them, his bones welcoming their slow, patient kneading. But Ed asks and he waits for a _yes_ \- in this case, the soft, seeking look Oswald levels him as he sets aside his tumbler of whisky, a quietness that tells him he's Oswald's world and everything in it - before kneeling at the foot of the armchair like a man before his king. And as Ed slides Oswald's pant leg just past the skinny knob of his knee and hears the spit catch in Oswald's throat, he remembers it took him - this man of fierce, wolfish ambition - just as long to expose his leg the very first time as it did to get him under the covers and lying back, opening himself to him.

Ed peels off his compression sock. A hiss of fabric over flesh, a crackle of static. His hands find Oswald's calf, working the muscle where the elastic of the sock has sliced a crisp red band into his skin. It's amazing how cool Oswald is to the touch, how pale, like a lizard's belly.

"...Does it hurt?" Ed asks. 

Oswald shakes his head, as expected. 

"No."

Oswald's not looking at the trainwreck of knotted tendons and muscles but at him- and Ed can feel it, can feel his scalp prickle even while his focus sharpens and he squeezes his way down to the lumpiness of Oswald's ankle and back again, unhurried. As always, he pauses to smooth his fingers up the chalk-white line seaming Oswald's shin, a pleated scar where a crude hand had laid stitches. And, as always, he feels insulted on Oswald's behalf. Not at the pain he weathered out, sweating and white-knuckled, so much as the fact that he suffered for _this_ \- a job he could have done infinitely better and for free, wanting nothing in return but a moment of Oswald's attention. A _thank you_ from Oswald after, and he might felt a shiver, a hot oozing of precome in his underwear. Times have changed, but some things haven't. It just takes a little more _Oswald_ for that giddy thrill to happen. 

He feels Oswald flex, go tense. But he doesn't pull away this time, when Ed mouths the scar soft. A sweet slow-burn of a kiss.

"You don't have to do this," Oswald tells him. Fingers curling into fists.

They look at each other a while. Their throats bob, almost at the same time, for different reasons.

"I want to, Oswald."

Ed drives it home with a smile after a moment, a small, honest thing. _No worries_ , it says, and Oswald doesn't know what to say to that, blinking his fluttery blink and offering a flickery-apologetic smile that comes and goes, sitting like a guest in a stranger's house. It suddenly seems like he might cry and Ed drops his gaze to his hands as they sweep upward, easing firmer, deeper circles up his leg. It's just past his knee, while Ed's palming the meat of his thigh and its softer parts, that he notices Oswald's hard. Ed's hands still - and from the blankness he catches on Oswald's face, it's a surprise to him too, if less pleasant.

The beginnings of a grin this side of daring curves the corner of Ed's mouth. 

"Can I help?"

Oswald is watching him through his lashes, chest rising and falling a little sharper, a little faster, as Ed skims his fingertips over him, tracing the fattened shape of him through his dress pants. He stirs; the armchair squeaks under him. A blush is already rashing his neck.

"I don't know," Oswald answers after a beat, pausing long enough for Ed's smile to falter before the roguish gleam in his eyes and a lift of his brows assures him he hasn't overstepped. "... _Can_ you?"

Relaxing, Ed meets his smirk with one of his own, a sharp quirk of his lips. Oswald has come a long way. "I'll see what I can do."

He opens Oswald's fly like a gift, the grating _zip_ so sharp in the half-dark. Knuckles grazing the dusting of hair fuzzing Oswald's belly as he dips a hand into his briefs and frees him, just his cock, swollen and curving, a twitching, needful thing. Ed thumbs a vein threading his shaft, smiling a pitying smile. His glans is peeking, flushed-dark and shiny. It hadn't surprised Ed at all, years ago, to learn Oswald was uncut, a casual observation he couldn't help making while sloughing Oswald out of the bloodied suit sticking to his back and into the smallest set of clean pajamas he had on hand. Not uncommon for those of a European background, he had reasoned - though now, from what he knows of _Mama Cobblepot_ , he can imagine the fit she must have thrown at the poor doctor making the suggestion.

Pumping him lightly, he watches Oswald's cockhead slip in and out its sheath and wetness gather at the tip. Leaking, crawling down his skin to blot Ed's knuckle. Oswald doesn't move, doesn't dare, sucking in a hissing breath through his teeth.

"I said yes, didn't I?" A muscle is rippling at the corner of his jaw.

"Patience, Oswald."

It's no insignificant thing, that bit of extra skin Oswald has, those extra nerves. A luxury, some would call it. But to Ed, it's a curiosity. A reminder of how much faster a warm, wet mouth and a tongue feathering his piss-slit could make Oswald go weak at the knees. How much sooner he could win him over. Or win an argument, if it came to it.

Oswald Cobblepot is simply not build to last.

The moment Ed's lips are on him, pillowy-soft, he's already sighing from deep in his throat, already _melting_ , digging his nail-bitten fingers into the armchair. Not quite the _keening_ , broken sounds Ed gets nuzzling his ass, laying spit in broad, dripping swathes over his trembling hole, but a brokenness all the same, a gentler kind. Ed catches a salty tinge of precome as he wraps his mouth around him and plunges down on him, his eager heat, hollowing his cheeks as he tugs at him slow. Oswald groans. Lets his eyes drift back into his skull, lids slipping shut. Oswald's never really liked lingering eye contact anyway, not like this, while Ed slides around him smooth like he's licking icing clean off the spoon. Ed's stopped asking why. It's just the way Oswald is, maybe the way he'd always be. For all the strides they've made, how much of Oswald's pleasure he's come to trust him with, Ed can't kiss away the shame years of pointing fingers and jeering grins had dealt and the ways they've twisted him up, turned him against himself. He can't reclaim Oswald's body for him, force him to embrace it, to feel as proud of it as he did his steel trap of a mind, his knife of a tongue; that's his own thing to sort out. But they could share in some of the enjoyment, at least. 

And Ed doesn't need to look into Oswald's face anyway - jaw going soft, eyelashes trembling - to know Oswald is already in pieces while he's ducking to mouth the thick seam of his cock and kiss him slippery from root to knob, gluey strings of spit clinging, snapping. Oswald's knees edge apart on their own, a big fucking _yes please_ , if the bitten-off whine wasn't a clue; and while Ed's smoothing his tongue over him, polishing him, he feels his fingers card his hair and a hand come to rest at the nape of his neck, no grip or force. Just there, letting Ed be and move at his own pace, letting Ed eat more and more cock on every lunge of his head until it's nearly tickling the back of his throat, Ed all but smothering his face into the muskiness of Oswald's crotch.

"Oh _god_ ," He rasps, chest heaving as Ed works at him, air puffing furiously in and out of his nose. "Ed, I'm..." 

His eyes - what Ed sees of them as Oswald looks around, patting down his suit pockets - are black and swimming with lust. Ed knows what he's looking for, ignores the warning for once - and by the time Oswald finds what he needs he's already clenching up, releasing, a gasp rattling his lungs. Hot spurts of come fills Ed's mouth and creep down his throat, another slapping his chin, dribbling, as he pulls off him with a sloppy pop, choking in a breath.

Oswald blinks, stares. He's never looked more stunned or sorry for it - Ed can't tell which. He only seems to see the milky glaze on Ed's lips, not the smile on them.

Panting, he remembers the tissue wadded up in his sweaty fist and reaches to dab Ed's cheeks with it, his mouth. It feels strange to Ed, Oswald tucking his fingers under his chin and cleaning him off, caring for him like a doting parent. But then, again, he never knew what that was like.

"Why didn't you..." A furrow creases Oswald's brow. The rest of the questions drops off. "I did try to warn you."

"I wanted to." Ed says with an easy smile, an even easier shrug. "I don't mind. For what it's worth...?" --he notches up his glasses, a smugness creeping into his voice -- "I'd describe the taste of you as a pleasantly tangy sweetness. I'm glad you went with my suggestion of the fruit salad for dinner."


End file.
